I wait and I am looking
(it is over, it is done),
standing in a field that I have ploughed
a thousand times.

I call and see there no one
and No One answers me:
Do you know her? Can you speak
her holy language?

The field is never empty
and I envy all her strength,
and the silver her fine lines become
in lucid midnight light.

Have you seen her? they will ask me
while ghosts play scales upon the wind.
Has her thousand year old Face
been turned upon thee?